A/N: Thanks to tafferling for betaing.
Please note that there is some dub-con content in this chapter.
Chapter Thirteen
"A major Oblivion plane is an expression of its Prince's very nature, so to say that each 'craves absolute control' of his or her sphere is inexact, as a desire for 'absolute control' is not central to every Prince's nature. To use the example you chose yourself, Sanguine's Myriad Realms of Revelry is a congeries of pocket and sub-realms, within which Sanguine grants his guests considerable latitude for personal customization, as each mini-realm can be refashioned to meet the needs and desires of its visitants. It is in Sanguine's nature to indulge the natures of others, particularly their darker desires, so to Sanguine, 'absolute control' is anathema."
– Tutor Riparius, from Lord Fa-Nuit-Hen and Tutor Riparius Answer Your Questions
Picture a young Imperial man, perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age (in fact I was now twenty-one. I always did look younger). In appearance he is slim and wiry, and some (not me, naturally) might describe him as remarkably good-looking. His face is expressive and quick to smile, but his eyes are ever watchful. And while his accent is Colovian, something in the way he draws out his consonants suggests he has recently spent time in Morrowind.
His name is Corvus.
Much of the above, as I'm sure you may have guessed, was an illusion. Over the preceding years, I'd practised my accent and bearing until they felt as natural as breathing. Until I'd almost started to believe that this man really existed – a natural son of a minor Colovian noble family fallen on hard times, one of many that had taken their chances in Vvardenfell when it was opened for settlement. His family had fared better than most. Many hadn't been quite so lucky in the inevitable feeding frenzy, merchants and nobles alike scrabbling and elbowing each other in the ribs in the hope of making themselves and their families rich on that strange island of ash-wastes and giant fleas.
There was a house, a modest affair in Balmora with a couple of servants, who would confirm that Corvus Alviarus did indeed visit in between whatever lickspittle attempts he was making to ingratiate himself with House Hlaalu. No doubt they would describe him with the level of contempt and general loathing that only a Dunmer servant can manage about his or her Imperial master.
The Gray Fox, whatever else he might be, was thorough.
From what I'd heard, my shadow in Morrowind didn't look a bloody thing like me, but then he didn't need to. He was Colovian, with a similar build, and the same colour hair. That was all we really needed. Most Dunmer can't tell the difference between Imperials anyway.
He was a member of the Vvardenfell Thieves' Guild, which had also dealt with the laying down of Corvus's spore: the inevitable forgeries and bribery that ensue when you attempt to conjure up a man from thin air. Favours to be returned with favours. They were as eager to build ties with the Cyrodiil guild as we were to build ties with them. More so in fact, since the seeds of their guild had taken root in hostile soil. The Camonna Tong would have considered it a delight to slit the throats of every last Thieves' Guild member who dared to set foot on Vvardenfell, and they needed every bit of help they could get.
~o~O~o~
I spent my nights reading anything I could get my hands on, books about Dunmer ancestral beliefs, about Vvardenfell and the history of Morrowind, the mushroom houses of the Telvanni wizards. I'd stay up late into the night with Miaran, working on my accent and practising my shaky Dunmeris until Armande got irritated with the pair of us and started slamming around the shack. That was my cue to make my excuses and make myself scarce, while Miaran bid me a laughing farewell, glancing at Armande, her red eyes hooding with desire.
They'd grown close the two of them since that night by the fire at the edge of the Rumare.
I was happy for them, but it was hard to quell the growing feeling of loneliness spreading through me. The next couple of hours or so I'd spend sitting on a rock, gazing across the Rumare to the distant hills, or if the weather was bad, I'd find myself in the brightest lit tavern I could find, trying to read my latest acquisition in peace.
My days I spent picking pockets and running scams and soaking in steam baths, usually at Sakeepa's, but sometimes when I was feeling flush, the opulent bathhouse in the Temple District, where the saltwater pool was inlaid with jewelled tiles and the air was filled with a sweet fragrance that awakened appetites in more ways than one. There was even a pool where men and women could intermingle, swim and flirt to their heart's delight, dressed for modesty's sake in silken garments that, when wet through, clung to every contour and curve.
And I worked, grabbing whatever jobs I could from Sam. Building a name for myself as a bold, daring thief who could think fast and run faster, and who'd take on just about any job, no matter how ill-advised, no matter how dangerous, and for no other reason than the sheer fucking joy of it.
And then there were the women.
I… may have developed something of a reputation. And not just for being a master thief.
~o~O~o~
Technically the loin cloth covered everything.
The statue loomed over the shrine, a flimsy length of cloth hanging down between massive thighs. Glance at it one way, and there was nothing but ripples of cloth. Glance at it another way, and squint a bit and the outline of a vast priapic stone cock could clearly be seen, veins and all. Whatever stonemason had carved that statue, he'd been damn good at his job.
Beside me the little Breton man huffed. "It's a bloody shambles is what it is. That damned Bosmer couldn't arrange a piss-up in a brewery."
There was a gray hazy quality to the day, and a chilled bite to the air. Drizzling rain that would occasionally burst into sudden short-lived showers. What few worshippers there were at the Shrine of Sanguine huddled around the braziers, more gloomy than orgiastic, and mostly grumbling about the weather.
The drunken orgy Min had promised had turned out to be much less fun than I'd been expecting. Not that we were here for the orgy, mind you, although I'll hold my hands up and admit I might have been just the tiniest bit curious.
This was a job. One of the big ones. One that'd earn me, and by extension the guild, honour and glory, and with any luck, more than a bit of coin. That was the theory anyway. Already things weren't quite going to plan. If there's one thing you can rely on as a thief, it's that the weather will always do its best to fuck you over.
Min was laughing at me from where he sat reclined on the benches, his arm slung around the woman he'd befriended, a lovely Altmer who'd grown up in Morrowind. She tipped her head back to let him kiss her neck.
Fuck you, I mouthed, and he winked at me.
The ground before the shrine had been rather optimistically spread with bedrolls and cushions. They had gone sodden from the constant rain, and a few worshippers sat at the base of the statue, trying to get in the mood of things and mostly failing. Only one of them, an Imperial woman in a dress in the Nibenean style – a length of purple silk, fastened with a golden collar at her throat – seemed there to genuinely worship. She sat with her bare feet tucked beneath her haunches, head tilted back in adoration, and as I watched her, half-heartedly responding to the Breton's tirade with grunts and tuts and 'goodness me's', her gaze flicked towards me, and she brought a crystal goblet filled with wine to her lips.
And even though I was as wet through and miserable as everyone else, my interest prickled. I flashed her an instinctive and involuntary grin and in response she raised an eyebrow, and tilted the goblet towards me. Invitation and offering both.
"A bloody shambles," the Breton said again, glaring at me as if I was personally responsible for the rain. "I mean, look at it. Just look at the weather."
"Do you think Sanguine gives a shit if it's raining?" I asked. He paused, squinted at me, suspicious, opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything I made my excuses and walked away, moving towards the shrine. Towards the woman.
She'd raised her face in adoration towards the statue. A true worshipper, I thought, and shivered, but as I approached, the glance she cast my way was not that of a fervent believer, but cynical and mocking. The soles of her feet were black with mud, and tattoos of swirling dots spiralled up her bare arms.
She crooked her finger, and I knelt down on the damp bedrolls. The smell of wet earth rose up to meet me, and she leaned closer, placing her hand on my chest. "You're not supposed to be here," she whispered.
Oh shit.
"Um... Yeah, okay, see the thing is–"
Her hand was sliding up beneath my shirt. "You're not really a worshipper, are you?"
"Well... no." I darted a glance at the rest of the group, and then up, to the statue. From this angle, that loincloth didn't quite conceal as much as I'd thought. "Are you going to tell the others?"
"Do you think I ought to?"
There was a challenge in her voice, the glint of mockery in her eyes. I opened my mouth, hesitated, uncertain what to say, whether or not she was serious or just screwing with me.
"I think I'd prefer it if you didn't," I said.
"Then on reflection I think I won't. And, after all, you do look like a man with a thirst." Her nails scratched against my chest, following the line of my ribs. I stiffened as she found the scar at my waist, and leaned in closer. "Am I right?"
"Gods, yes." My voice was husky. "I've never been so fucking thirsty in my life."
She grinned, and brought the bottle to my lips. Only a few teasing drops at first, and then a flood. I swallowed deeply, until the tide overwhelmed me and I spluttered, coughed out a spray of wine that stained her skin, her dress. She laughed, and took a swallow of wine herself. A dark drop of wine spilled from her lips and traced its way down her throat and the curve of her breast. I watched it, longing to follow it with my tongue.
"You're not the first, you know," she said softly. "Half the fools here don't worship Sanguine in their hearts. Some of have come to watch. Others come to touch." Her lips brushed against my ear. "Why did you come here?"
"I don't know," I lied. "Curiosity, maybe?"
She drew back, and her hand slipping down, her nail following the line of hair down from my belly button. It hooked at the waistband of my trousers, tugged them down, just a fraction, just enough to make me catch my breath.
"It's always curiosity," she said. "Or that's what they tell themselves. In truth it's hunger. For food, for wine, for sex." She took another swig of the wine, but instead of swallowing, she bent close and kissed me, let the wine flow from her mouth into mine.
My hand rose involuntarily to cup her backside. The silk felt like peach-fuzz.
"They laugh about it, the fools," she continued. "As if it's possible to sit at the feet of a Daedric Lord and drink his wine and fuck his women and walk away unscathed. Some of them are too dull for words, and they, they are the ones he allows to walk away."
"I'm incredibly dull," I murmured into her collarbone: I'd found the opening in her dress, the crease between her buttocks and her thigh. "I'm the dullest man who ever lived."
"Mm, and the only reason you came here was because of curiosity."
I went still for a moment. My gaze flicked towards the benches, but I couldn't see Min. Far off thunder rumbled in the distance. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I knew I should be politely disengaging. I had work to do after all, but the woman was still talking, and it seemed impolite to ignore her, especially when I had my hand on her backside.
"I can always tell. Who the dull ones are, the ones who will walk away and forget and be forgotten, unless my Prince takes it upon himself to punish them. And then there are the others. The ones who lie, who tell themselves they come only because of lust or curiosity, or for more base reasons–"
A glint in her eye. She knows, I thought, a sudden flare of panic, and then her fingers tugged the waistline of my trousers down another inch, and my panic was almost forgotten.
I caught hold of her wrist. "And what's the truth?"
"They come," she said, "because they can't bear how empty they are inside."
I stared at her, my grip tightening. She only smiled, laughter in her eyes. I had to force myself to loosen my grip. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Sanguine's shadow loomed over us, a fine drizzling rain dampening my cheeks like tears. Goosebumps rippled up her bared arms, echoing the stippled dots of her tattoos. And a voice, rose up inside me, whispering, You should be running, idiot.
She tilted her head. "Still thirsty?"
No. Gods, no.
Instead I cleared my throat, my voice scratchy and hoarse. "I could drink."
What's the worst that can happen?
She reached, not for the bottle of wine, but for an ancient clay ewer. "This is something different," she said softly. "Something very special. Care to try it?"
"Why the fuck not?"
But instead of pouring me a glass, she lifted the ewer to her own mouth and drank deeply. The wine spilled over her full lips, down the curve of her white throat, soaking into the silk, making it cling to her body, over her breasts. And the hunger, the thirst, couldn't be ignored any more. I roused myself and moved to kiss her throat, to lap and suck the wine from her skin.
The scent of it was dizzying, filling my lungs, and my thirst and my hunger seemed nothing but an echo of the ancient hunger of a watching god.
~o~O~o~
Music was playing. I couldn't place the instrument. It seemed a cross between a harp and a drum and a woman's voice. It was beautiful: eerie and heartbroken and joyous all at once, and echoed the beating of my heart, the pulsing of the blood in my veins. The air tasted of the sweetest wine imaginable, fragranced with lavender and honeysuckle, and underneath a definite hint of sex.
I was in a bathhouse, standing at the edge of a vast pool of turquoise water, the surface broken by a number of islands on which bodies lay entwined. Hidden nooks lined the walls, the occupants not quite concealed by gauzy iridescent curtains that rippled in the scented breeze. There were tables piled high with food and drink of every kind, sweetmeats, roasted peacocks with a spray of feathers fanning out behind them, and the roof was open to a sky like none I'd ever seen before, strange constellations rippling past.
A man was waiting for me. He sat on a cushioned bench, drinking and watching the revellers.
He was a Breton, dark-haired, with eyes red-rimmed from too much alcohol and too many late nights. He lounged back against the cushions, a boot resting on the low table, and he barely glanced up when I cleared my throat.
"Hi. Um... I think I'm lost."
"I'll say. Take a wrong turn?"
"Yeah." I lifted my head, stared at the sky. "Am I still near Skingrad?"
"Not exactly, no."
"Oh. Damn. I must be lost then." And then I looked around again, gaze catching on the bodies on the nearby island. The flash of a thigh, a breast. A hand curving around a fleshy buttock, fingers biting into skin. Lots of fingers. Lots of skin. "I'd say I feel like I've been here before but I'm pretty sure I'd remember this."
"Yeah, it kinda sticks in people's minds." He grinned. "Like a fish hook."
"I don't think I belong here."
"Oh, I don't know if I'd agree with that. I'd say you belong here just fine."
"What do you mean?"
He jerked his head at the cushion beside him. "Sit down. Rest your weary soul. Enjoy the scenery." And that grin again: not pleasant, not friendly, but hungry. "Have a drink. It's brandy. Your favourite. Actually, no, I tell a lie, this is better than your favourite. This is the 415 batch, rarer and finer than plucked ant-pizzles, this. Each drop is worth more than a fortune in gold back on Mundus and it's worth it, believe me."
"I've heard about that batch." I felt a tug of longing. "I thought I'd be able to steal some once but it was locked up tighter than a virgin's snatch. Could I really try it–"
"Drink your fill." He gestured to the bench beside him, and I sank down into the cushions. The fabric was a soft rose pink, with the delicate texture of petals. He bared his teeth as me, and handed me a glass of brandy. It was just as fine as I'd expected.
Better.
My eyes closed, and I was struck by the thought that I'd never taste anything as fine as this ever again, that it might in fact spoil drinking for me completely. There was almost something almost holy in this moment; it felt like an act of worship.
And he was watching my face, "That's good, huh?"
"It's the best. Damn, I wish I'd got my hands on that bottle. I don't think I'd have sold it on even. I'd have kept it and cherished it."
"Nah, I know your sort. You'd have drained the bottle dry before the night was out. Something as precious as this you wouldn't be able to resist. You never have been good at saying no, have you?" And he was pouring me another glass.
"Are you sure? That's got to cost a fortune." I was holding an emperor's ransom in the damp sweating palm of my hand.
"Drink up. There's more than that came from."
"Seriously?"
"Kid, I've got a bottomless supply. And you think that brandy's good? That's horse-piss compared to some of what I've got stashed away. There are some benefits to being me."
I drank, and if anything it was better than before. The warmth of the cushions enveloped me,the soft velvety brush of the fabric a kiss against my skin. The sensation made me think of the woman back at the shrine. How smooth her skin was, how beautiful, and how desperately I wished she was here beside me. I stared up the sky in languid pleasure, thinking it unnatural but shiveringly beautiful. "I'm Jack," I murmured.
"Sam." And he laughed when I stuck up my hand, but he shook it, his grip warm and dry.
"I know a Sam," I said dreamily. "He's a good guy."
"Yeah?" And this Sam kept grinning, brought his own glass to his lips. "I'm not."
I drank, feeling his eyes on me. The cushions seemed to be easing us closer, deliberately, like a child mashing two dolls together. The warm air smelled of musk and the salt-brine stink of sex. The music felt like fingers brushing over my skin, the sound of distant laughter, soft and welcoming.
"I'm not dreaming, am I?" Brandy lapped at my lips like waves along the edge of a sandy beach.
His voice was soft, almost right in my ear. "No. You're not."
"And your name isn't really Sam."
"Nope."
"And I'm nowhere near Skingrad?"
"I'd say that's a definite 'no'."
My eyes snapped open, and I stared at the sky. "Am I in Oblivion?"
There was no answer this time, only his eyes resting on me, and he was shifting closer, no longer bothering with the glass, but bringing the bottle to my lips and pouring, just like the woman had. He flooded me with brandy. So much brandy it seemed almost to crush me into the cushions, and I reached up, intending to push his arm away, and instead I brought the bottle back to my lips. I drank until I'd run out of air, while his soft laughter wrapped around me, until I had no choice but to knock him away before I passed out. I floundered up, gasping like a half-drowned man.
Above the sky spiralled like I was drunk – you are drunk, idiot, I thought, and laughed, pushing my hair back. My body felt like it was melting into the cushions, and when I glanced at him, his smile no longer seemed quite so dangerous.
It was a feeling like nothing I'd ever experienced in my life, certainly nothing like being drunk in the real world. As if the brandy had been spiked with something other than alcohol, and all the colours in the world seemed a little brighter, a little richer, and I could feel the air prickling against my skin, each wrinkle and water droplet in the texture of my clothes, the velvety cushions sweeping across my skin like a tongue.
What would be like to be naked, I wondered, to feel the kiss of the the fabric against every inch of skin, or to plunge into that tangled mess of bodies and find countless hands, lips, on my skin while this man watched?
"You know, I like you, kiddo," he said.
"Thanks."
He leaned closer. "But you were right, you don't belong here."
"What do you mean–"
"Not yet, anyway. You're hers, and while the prospect of fucking with a rival's plans is kinda appealing, I've never really gone in for all that backstabbing bullshit. Not unless it's worth it. And you..." He paused, those reddened eyes studying me. "Eh. I don't know if you are worth it. You're a little raw, and not in a good way."
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.
"Come back when you've leavened, kid."
Disappointment prickled at me. "You mean you want me to go."
"Aw, don't get upset. Have some more brandy. Have some ale. Have some skooma. Have whatever you want. Have as much of it as you can flood down that sweet little gullet of yours. And then have some more. You can't stay forever, but that doesn't mean you can't linger for a little while." His skin was darkening, and beneath faint traceries were becoming visible, scarlet tattoos beneath his skin. His features sharpened, and in his hair nubs of bone were forming. He looked less human with every passing moment, and the smell of roses clung to him. "And it doesn't mean we can't have a little fun while you're here."
~o~O~o~
I woke to the crackling of a fire. Felt rough fabric against my cheek, and my right arm, crushed beneath the weight of my body, had gone numb. And for a second when I opened my eyes all I could see was white.
Oh holy fucking shit, I thought. I'm in Aetherius.
And then: Bollocks.
But if I was dead, it seemed a little strange that I should be aching so much. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them again. Something soft brushed my nose, an escaped feather from the pillow. I shifted, turned my head a little to the side, and winced at a stabbing pain of protest from my aching ribs. I set my hands against the bed, and gingerly pushed myself up.
A bedroom. Perhaps a room in an inn, and a passably decent one judging by the fair to middling cleanliness of the bed sheets. I rolled myself up to a sitting position, and swung my legs off the bed. Every muscle was aching and sore, as if I'd been run through a mangler several times by the terrifyingly efficient washerwoman they'd hired to clean the sheets.
I pulled my shirt up with a twinge of protest in my shoulder, and stared numbly at my chest. Every inch of my skin was mottled with bruises, shading from yellow-greenish to fresh and dark and livid. I tried to crane my head to look at my back, but couldn't turn it that far without a wave of dizzy nausea threatening to overwhelm me.
There was a soft little gasp, and I looked around to see Min in the doorway, his gaze fixed on my chest. His skin had gone the colour of one of my oldest bruises.
"What the fuck happened to me?" I demanded.
"You're asking me? I was going to ask you the same question." He forced a weak smile. "One minute you were there, and the next you were gone. I thought you'd fucked off with someone until you didn't come back." His gaze dropped to my chest again, and I tugged my shirt down. "Jack, it's been four days."
"What has?"
"You were missing for four days. I was sure you were dead. I was too scared to go home. I thought Armande would murder me for sure."
"He probably would have done."
He gave a bark of laughter, perhaps not realising I wasn't exactly joking. "The Skingrad guard found you wandering the streets naked and drunk out of your skull. You threw up on someone's boot. The amount I had to pay in bribes to get you out of jail…"
I rolled my shoulders as I stood up, wincing. "Was it them kicked the shit out of me?"
"I don't think so. Skingrad isn't Bravil. They're civilised here." He bit his lower lip. "Are you in a lot of pain?"
"Bit sore. I might have cracked a rib or two, but I've had worse." I gave an impatient wave of my hand. "Never mind me. I'll live. Did you manage to..."
His eyes gleamed. "What you you think?"
Excitement thrilled through me, my aches forgotten. "Fuck me. Tell me you haven't sold it yet."
He shook his head. "Thought I'd keep it just in case Armande came after me." He crossed to the bed, and knelt, tugged a bundle out from underneath. I lowered myself onto the bed, and held my breath as he unwrapped the package with delicate movements of his hands.
Within lay a staff, bigger than I'd expected (perhaps appropriate given its true master). Its length was a gleaming emerald green, barbed with thorns, and crowned by an exquisite rose, with silken spreading petals, delicate pink with more than a hint of female anatomy about them.
And I couldn't help myself from bouncing on the bed in excitement. "Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit. Can I touch it?"
"Yes, Jack," Min said, with solemnity. "You may touch my staff."
"You're hilarious." I reached out, brushing my finger against the carved rose, and for a moment something flashed through my skull, and I was touching not carved wood but a woman, heat and wetness, and thighs clamping shut on my hand. I jerked it away. "By the Nine!"
Min traced the stem delicately. "The Nine don't have much to do with this."
"It's so beautiful. I didn't think it would be." And I was itching to touch it again, to curl my fist tight around the shaft, heedless of how sharp the thorns might be. I wanted to make it mine.
Min was watching me, his amusement gone. He wrapped the Rose back up and settled back on his haunches. "Jack, what really happened back there?"
"Nothing happened. I must have passed out, I think."
He took hold of my arm and squeezed. "Don't bullshit me. What happened?"
The scent of roses, so heavy in the air I could taste it. Pain and joy and wild glorious pleasure tangling together in my heart.
I closed my eyes. "I don't know. I drank something. And everything went... weird."
"Weird how?"
I wasn't sure I had the words to answer that particular question. "There was a woman..."
"What woman?"
"The dark-haired woman in the purple dress." But even as I said it I knew. "There was no woman in a purple dress was there? Not that you saw, anyway."
He shook his head, disquiet in his eyes.
"So unless I was hallucinating, and that's always a possibility..." I grimaced. "Min, I think I might have accidentally fucked a Daedric Lord."
"Oh."
"Yeah. But at least you got your staff, hey?"
"Thing is..." His mouth twisted. "No one fucks a Daedric Lord, Jack. They fuck you. More accurately they fuck you over."
"Yeah."
Curiosity gleamed in his eyes. "Was it good?"
"It was–"
My fingers burying deep in hair, closing tight around a horn. Sharp teeth on my skin.
And I couldn't sit down any longer, not with Min's eyes on me and my cheeks burning. I crossed to the window, stared out onto the courtyard. I'd always thought of myself as only being interested in women, but whatever had happened to me, it hadn't been about male or female: it had been everything, every single one of my messed up, filthy little daydreams handed to me on a platter, and with the promise of more to come.
"It was unbelievable."
"You really did get fucked, huh?"
"Shut up."
"You know, I'm almost tempted to tell the buyer to go to hell and let you take this. Since you're one of Sanguine's favoured. It almost feels like you ought to have it. As long as you have a couple of thousand Septims to spare, naturally, and another thousand to keep my buyer sweet."
"I'm not one of his favoured." It was impossible to keep the note of hurt out of my voice. In the corner of my eye I saw Min glance up sharply. "He kicked me out. He told me I wasn't ready."
At that, there was a long silence.
"I think maybe this was a mistake," Min finally said. "I should have brought Armande instead."
"To Sanguine's shrine? Miaran would have had your balls."
"I know, but still... you of all people. You're too impulsive and you don't take enough care. You never have." He regarded me with unease. "You have to be be careful, Jack. It's one thing to screw around. Gods know there are few who haven't felt the lure of Sanguine at one time or another, but he's one of the most dangerous of the lot. Fuck the four corners of the Dunmer House of Troubles – Sanguine's the fucking foundation. And the last thing you need is a Daedric Lord taking an interest in you."
I took another glance at the tree in the courtyard. A pair of ravens had settled on its branches, ruffling their feathers in the damp mizzling rain.
"Yeah," I said. "I think it's probably a bit late for that."
~o~O~o~
The smell of old books enveloped me as I opened the door to the bookshop where Calvus Varo plied his trade. Inside the air was peaceful with the quiet sort of calm you might expect to find in a temple but which I never did.
A crook-backed scrivener with ink-stained fingers slid a heavy leather-bound book from the shelves, and cradled it in his bony arms, shaky as a new mother still recovering from the birth. I looked away from him and swept my gaze around the bookshop, at the shelves stuffed full with books of every size and shape and condition, some newly bound with fresh leather, others battered and ancient, and some stored safely behind glass cabinets in a way that had me itching to pick the lock and see what rare treasures laid within.
Calvus sat at the counter, squinting down at a book, his finger following the text. He looked older, as if ten years had passed rather than four. He glanced up at my approach, taking in first my robes and then my face, and I held my breath, waiting for the moment when he recognised me. It didn't come.
"Can I help you, sir? Are you looking for any book in particular, or do you come to trade?"
A stab of strange mingled emotions pricked at me: disappointment, along with pride that my disguise worked so well. "As a matter of fact, I am looking for a book," I said, my voice rich Colovian. I lowered it. "Something quite rare. The Tale of Dro'Zira."
"Ah." His eyebrows flicked up in surprise. "That is rare. I'm afraid I don't currently have a copy in stock, but I do have a couple of ideas where I could start looking."
The scrivener gave a heavy sigh, replaced the book on the shelf with a little difficulty and a lot of reluctance, and left the shop. The little bell signalled his departure. Calvus swung around on his chair and rifled through a box stacked full with books.
"If you have a very particular interest in Khajiit religion and culture," he said, "we had a selection of books brought in the other day. I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to catalogue them thoroughly, but I do believe some of the books related to some rather fascinating aspects of Khajiit moon worship. Hmm, hmm, hmm, let me see now..."
"I'm looking for something special. It's a gift, you see," I said. "For a friend." And with those last three words I allowed the Niben Valley to creep back into my voice, the drawling vowels of Bravil. Corvus went still, his hands tightening around the book he was about to pull from the box, then agonisingly slowly he lifted his head and stared at me.
I grinned.
"Gods," he said, his voice breathless. "Jack?"
"It's good to see you again."
"But... Gods, look at you, my boy." And all at once, moving with a speed that seemed incongruous for such an elderly man, he was on his feet, moving around the side of the counter. My smile slipped a little with the flash of realisation that either I had grown or he had shrunk as he gripped my aching arms and stared up into my face with astonishment. "Look at you."
"I grew," I said. "A bit."
"A bit?" He gave a disbelieving laugh. "Not just a bit, Jack. By the Nine Divines, you're looking well. And these clothes..." He ran a curious eye over my robes. "There's a story there, I suspect."
"A long and convoluted one."
"Naturally. I'd expect nothing less. And something tells me," he said, "it doesn't involve you having made your fortune in Morrowind."
"You're right. It doesn't."
"I won't ask too many questions..."
"You can ask all the questions you like. I can't promise I'll answer any of them, but..." I hesitated. "I think I owe you a few answers at least."
He slapped my arm. I tried not to flinch at the stab of pain from my tender bruises, and thanked the gods he didn't notice. It wasn't anything I wanted to explain. "You owe me nothing, my boy. Except perhaps an afternoon of your company. Have you eaten?"
In fact I had, but I could probably stand to eat again. "Not yet."
"Well, come. I'll shut up the shop for the afternoon, and we can go for lunch in the Two Sisters Lodge. They do a very fine rabbit stew."
The bell jingled again and Calvus hurried off to usher the prospective customer out with some effusive apologies, and some explanation about a dear nephew he hadn't seen in years and was very fond of unexpectedly arriving in town.
~o~O~o~
He was right about the stew. It was delicious, served on a trencher of bread flavoured with sage. The sauce was creamy and spiked with mustard seeds and whole pickled peppercorns which crunched between my teeth. We took a long unhurried lunch, the carved wooden bowl in the middle of the table filling up with delicate rabbit bones, as the level of the bottle of wine went steadily down.
I redonned the Colovian accent, which drew a curious glance from Calvus, but he didn't press too hard about where I had been or what I had been doing. From the occasional glint in his eyes I suspected he'd guessed. Every time the conversation started to drift towards me and what I had been doing, I gave it a delicate nudge and shifted it back to him. In truth, it wasn't hard. All I had to do was mention books, or a particular volume I had read or wanted to read, and we were back on less treacherous ground. He was even less fond of his cousin than he had been four years ago, but needs must, and it was a fine opportunity to rebuild his collection.
After the innkeeper had removed our bowls Calvus went quiet, swirling the sweet amber-coloured wine in his glass distractedly.
"Speaking of your collection..." I fished around in my pack and pulled out the book. "I have a gift for you."
He blinked, startled, as I passed it over, and squinted at the spine.
"Ancient Tales of the Dwemer?" His eyes widened. "By Talos, Jack, this is... This must have cost you a fortune. I hadn't realised there were any complete copies left."
"It took me a while to track down," I admitted.
In fact, I'd stumbled across it in a private library. When I burgled houses, I often spend as much time browsing shelves than rifling through jewellery boxes and silverware cabinets. Books can be surprisingly good to steal. Their value can run into the thousands, and unlike jewellery, where highly recognisable items often need to be melted down and reworked to get anywhere near the true value, book collectors are seldom so finicky. There is a certain obsessive nature amongst book collectors, the need to own and possess, even if said possession is not technically legal. And a book may be owned and read in private. No one need ever know you own it and its value remains unchanged. The same cannot be said of jewellery.
This particular copy was not stolen. I might not have learned of its existence in an entirely legal way, but it had been purchased entirely legally. Well, almost entirely legally. A few discreet enquiries, and it turned out the owner might be willing to part with it in return for a particular item that I hadn't been able to obtain except via certain extra-legal measures. That was good enough for me, although granted my morals always have been a bit flexible.
He closed the book, and set it carefully on the table. "Thank you, Jack," he said, although he didn't seem as pleased as I had expected. When Jobasha had seen the book he'd virtually purred. I'd had to prise the book out of his grip, and from the way he'd bared his teeth and flattened his ears, I'd been pretty sure he was considering tearing my throat out.
"You... don't like it." And gods, how crushed I sounded, my voice crumbling at the edges. The old ever-present guilt, chased away for a few scant hours by a glass or two of wine and a fine rabbit stew, came creeping back, like a wolf prowling the edge of a campfire.
"I do like it. I'm very grateful. And it is good to see you, my boy. It's just..." He lowered his voice. "I would ask you where you've been, but I don't want to pry..."
"The Imperial City, mostly. We have a house in the Waterfront District, Armande and I. Along a Khajiit who I think would be very glad to make your acquaintance." I gave a shrug. "It's comfortable enough. Not fancy, but compared to Shitbrook Alley in Bravil, it might as well be a palace. Min sends his regards."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Ah, Minelcar," he said, carefully. "I take it then that you joined the guild."
I nodded.
"Mm." He sipped of his wine. "I always rather suspected you would. Well, for what it's worth, it seems to be a life that suits you."
"Thank you," I said, although I wasn't entirely certain he meant it as a compliment. "Calvus, what's wrong."
He shook his head. "Possibly nothing. At least, I hope so. I am glad you came to see me, Jack."
"I'm only sorry it took me so long."
"As am I. Odd as it may sound I miss those days. And Bravil. My books..."
Inwardly, I winced.
"I have some contacts there still. They send me rumours, gossip, that sort of thing..." He hesitated, and I nodded.
"Go on."
"About a year or so ago, someone was in Bravil. Asking too many questions. Specifically about you."
I shivered in unease, brought the glass of wine to my lips. It burned amber in the candlelight. "Who?"
"I don't know."
"Friends of Pellis?"
His eyes closing, and an involuntary shudder ran through him. Reliving that night, I thought, when the flames consumed his house. "I don't know. I don't think so. My friend wasn't able to find out without raising too many questions themselves. But they were asking for you, asking if anyone had heard anything of a young boy calling himself Jack or Jackdaw. They said..." He hesitated, then seemed to force himself to look at me. "They said you'd been stolen away as a baby. That your... that your mother was looking for you."
"My mother." A cold fist closed around my throat, tightening with every breath I tried to take. My hand was trembling so much I was about to spill the wine. I went to set it down, changed my mind and swallowed it back instead. "Fuck."
"If I'd known where you were..."
"No, it's... It's fine." I placed the glass down, pressed my hand over my mouth. "Was it a woman asking?"
He shook his head. "A man. Slender, dark-haired. Colovian, but that doesn't mean much."
"No, it doesn't."
"Jack..." He hesitated. "I know this is none of my business, but is it possible..."
"What, that my mother really was looking for me?" My voice was grating, no trace of Colovian now. "My mother's dead. She's been dead a long time."
"I'm sorry. Then..." He removed his spectacles, tapped them against him cheek. "Then these people, whoever they were, were lying. Which means that whatever they want you for..."
"...Is unlikely to be for the good of my health and well being. Well, not much change there then." I drew a shaky breath, forced the tremor in my hands to still. Focused on the Colovian, the differing movements of my mouth and lips to shape the words. "I'm used to people wanting to beat the shit out of me," I said, and now the accent was flawless. "Do you know if anyone said anything?"
Calvus raised an eyebrow at the shift in my voice than shook his head. "I have no idea, my boy, but if you're living in the Imperial City now it's unlikely they'll overlook it for long. They'll be there soon, looking for you, if they haven't arrived already. I think it might be wise to say goodbye to Jackdaw of Bravil. This..." He hesitated, searching for the right word, then nodded at me, "...persona you don like a mask, does he have a name?"
"Corvus Alviarus."
"Corvus." He stared at me in astonishment, them laughed. "Perhaps I should have guessed. You know, sometimes you're too damned clever for your own good. You picked the name yourself, I take it."
I nodded. "It seemed fitting."
"Well, Corvus Alviarus, if I may say, the name suits you." He swept his gaze over me, his lips tightening into a smile that didn't quite touch his eyes. "The whole thing suits you. I always said you always were a born forger."
~o~O~o~
After a brief squabble about the matter of settling up the bill, which I let him win, we walked back to his lodgings above the bookshop. "Will you be staying in Skingrad long?"
I shook my head. "I only stuck around to see you. I have to move on tomorrow."
He glanced at me, his eyebrows raised, but asked no questions. I was grateful for that. I think if he'd pressed, I would have told him the whole damned story. "Well, don't leave it so damned long next time."
"I won't," I said, and meant it. "I am sorry it took me so long to find you. And not just because of..." I gave an awkward little shrug. "I miss those days a little too. Things were simpler them."
"Because you were a boy. Things always seem simple when you're young. Then you get older, and realise how wrong you were. That's how the world works."
"So this is me growing up?"
He gave me a sudden flash of a grin. "Exactly. How old are you now?"
"Twenty-one, I think."
"Don't be so uncertain. Would Corvus Alviarus be uncertain? Does he not know exactly when he was born and who his parents are?"
"Sort of. He's never been too certain about his father."
Calvus snorted. "You're a born forger, my boy. Nothing's ever perfect."
"Bastardy's a handy thing," I admitted with a grin. "Makes it ever so much harder to track a man's family down."
He laughed, then quietened. "Speaking of bastards, how is Minelcar?" He was trying to sound casual, as if the answer hardly mattered. Min had been much the same way when he'd asked me to send his regards: he'd barely looked at me, and had flushed dark with irritation when I tried to press him into coming.
"He's well," I said. "Very well. Wild as ever. Not quite as wild as me, mind you."
"Ah." He fell silent again while I burned with curiosity.
"You should come visit," I said. "We'd be glad to have you stay with us, although I suspect you'd be more comfortable if you stayed in a tavern. Still, you'd be welcome, and I'm sure Min would be happy to see you again. There's a wonderful book fair every third week in the Market District that I think you'd love."
"I might at that," he said, although from his tone, friendly but non-committal, I knew he never would. I let the subject fall.
"Well..." And we stopped outside the shop, the window shuttered and dark. "Good night, then."
"Goodnight, Corvus. Don't be a stranger."
~o~O~o~
The bathhouse in Skingrad was only small and modest compared to the opulent establishments in the Imperial City – even Sakeepa's – but air was sweetly scented, the steam hot and medicinal, and the attendant attractive and discreet, hardly raising an eyebrow when I eased off my shirt to reveal my battered torso. She was gentle too, as she scraped the grime from every inch of my skin. The slab on which I lay was heated from within, and in the cosseting warmth of the room, I rested my cheek pillowed on the tiles, and dozed. Drowsy and relaxed, warm and clean for what seemed the first time since I'd come to Skingrad, I wondered if I could bear to take a dip in the chilled saltwater pool, and decided that on the whole I would rather not. I was so comfortable and warm and pleasantly drowsy the idea held little appeal.
Besides the assistant was good at this, her hands gentle, working their way up my neck and into my hair, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. She leaned across me to work at my temples and her breasts pressed against my back, snapping me out of my doze. Almost certainly deliberate.
I grinned into the tiles, my body waking up. "I'm afraid you're out of luck," I said. "I don't pay for sex. Although you can be assured you'll receive a generous tip for trying so wonderfully hard. "
"And here I was looking forward to making love to you. Such a pity," she murmured, her voice rich and soft and warm and... oddly familiar. "I suppose I shall have to do it for nothing then."
"Well, now..." I grinned down at the tiles, shifted my body so my cock wasn't pressed quite so tightly against the slab. "If you absolutely insist–"
I turned my head, found myself staring into the cowled face of the Gray Fox.
"Shitting hell!" I scrambled up, slipping naked and oily from the slab, while the Gray Fox smirked from where she perched atop it.
"Well met, Jack."
"What the–" Cheeks burning, I snatched for the towel and wrapped it around my waist. "Gods, I feel violated now."
"Funny, I could have sworn you were enjoying yourself. I do hope so. I'll be heartbroken if I don't get my tip." Her gaze flicked down to my chest. "Those bruises look painful."
"I had an altercation with a Daedric Lord. Nothing serious."
"Hmm." She folded her arms. "I'd ask which one, but knowing you, and considering we're in Skingrad, I rather suspect I can guess."
"Godsblood. Does everyone know about the Shrine of Sanguine? It must be the worst-kept secret in Cyrodiil." I glanced at her, my gaze drawn back to the cowl and to the runes etched in the felted wool, which seemed to glow from within. It was a crude thing, and should have looked ridiculous with its haphazard, childish stitching, but instead it was unnerving. More than unnerving. A chill note of fear seemed to start at the nape of my neck and spread throughout my body, coiling tight around my heart, filling me with the urge to run. Fast and far and not stop until I'd left this woman – this thing – far behind me.
And then the moment passed as it always did.
"We were starting to worry about you," she said. "We expected you back days ago."
"I had business in Skingrad."
"Visiting old friends?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes." I tightened the towel around my waist, and ran my hand through my hair. My composure – and my cock – were finally starting to settle down, my cock rather reluctantly. My air of calm was mostly faked, but at least my heart wasn't skittering at twice the normal rate any more.
Meeting the Gray Fox never failed to give me the fucking creeps.
It didn't help that she was dressed in women's clothing today, in a loose billowing shirt of fine brushed silk, dove-gray and translucent where the oil had soaked into it, tucked into a moleskin skirt. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and the fabric draped loosely over a figure that would have caught my attention on the street. Lovely really, or she would have been if it wasn't for the hideous cowl.
"And it couldn't wait?" she asked.
"It had waited too long already." I gestured to my clothes. "Am I permitted to get dressed, oh guildmaster mine, or...?"
She waved a hand. "By all means."
"Then–" I whirled my finger in the air.
She rolled her eyes, a gesture turned ghoulish by the cowl. Seeing the whites of her eyes sent another shiver of itching fear down the nape of my neck. "Modesty hardly becomes you."
But she turned her back on me and leaned against the slab. I glanced at her, making sure she wasn't going to turn back around at the last moment, and started to dress quickly, tugging my clothes on over my oil-slick skin. But clothes from Morrowind aren't exactly designed for dressing in a hurry.
"Guess I'm not going to get the chance for a dip now," I said, glaring at her back.
"Events move apace, Corvus. Perhaps if you hadn't allowed yourself to get side-tracked–" she started to look around.
"Eyes front."
"Oh please." And deliberately she turned to face me. I swore, as I tried to pull on the robes, cursing the intricate and complicated layers and lining that tangled and caught on every limb. I forced my arm down through what I thought was an armhole and heard a seam rip.
"Fuck."
"Gods, just let me help."
"I'm fine. I can–" I clamped my jaw shut at the approach of the cowl. It gave off some strange smell, some ancient desiccated spice I couldn't place, and this close I could see the grain in the cloth, each individual strand in the thick coarsely spun thread. She tugged the robe onto me with the patient air of a parent dressing a small child, and smoothed out the folds in the fabric. "There."
I half-expected her to lick her finger and rub away a smudge of dirt on my cheek.
"Thank you," I said, through gritted teeth. "How did you know I was in Skingrad anyway? Were you spying on me?"
"As a matter of fact I was." Her eyes lingered on me. "Did you know?"
"I had my suspicions. Every now and then, I felt like I was being watched."
"And you weren't tempted to attack me again?"
"Attack–" I broke off, frowning at the tantalising hint of a memory, just out of reach. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"No. Of course not." She sighed. Behind the cowl, her eyes went weary. "Not that it matters. The question is, are you ready?"
And the thing is, I thought I had been, right up until the moment I saw her: my guildmaster, the woman half the guild still thought a myth. I hadn't thought I could prepare any more, that I might even have prepared too much. Sometimes, after all, it's better to wing it. Or so I told myself.
It was at times like this, I realised just how much bullshit that actually was.
"Well," I said, forcing a smile, "not like it's the first time I've had the shit kicked out of me."